Feel
by Sandshrew777
Summary: He's learned so many things since he's come to the X-Men, but this feeling is new. He isn't sure what it is, but it's making him melt and he's burning to know the reason why.


**Author's Note: I have almost no knowledge of the cartoonverse to really speak of beyond the first season, but this is sometime after the whole Phoenix storyline in the comics.**

**Disclaimer: If I owned the X-Men, or even just one of these characters (even the really lame ones), I'd be rich, and I'm not.

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This is how Jamie must feel when he absorbs a dupe that's been out there for a while. He says he feels kinda disoriented and a little outta place, and that his head feels like someone took a sledgehammer to it a few hundred times as all that new info comes rolling into his brain.

(He threw me across the room with a judo move. I didn't know he knew judo. His three dupes were waiting; one kicked me while I was down, right in the ribs. Then the other two grabbed me and held me still while the third beat whatever part of me he could find. Jamie ran over, screaming, and absorbed them all at once, something I also didn't know he could do. He looked down at me on the floor of the Danger Room, and that overwhelming feeling of self-hatred---that he, or some part of him, at least, was capable of something so heartless---leaked from his eyes and forced me to my feet. I gathered him up in a brotherly hug, whispering soothing noises as he cried his big heart out. This is what forgiveness felt like.)

This is how Jean must have felt when her migraines came on really badly. It was all she could do to eat at dinner sometimes, with her one hand on her head and the other really, really slowly putting food in her mouth.

(Whenever Scott was busy working on flight plans or some other stupid drill for the team with the Professor and Wolverine, she'd come over to the couch and sit with me. I always used to do word searches, and when I got to the last word, the word I'd been looking for the entire time and still couldn't find amongst the graphite-ridden page, she'd simply lean over and point to a letter, letting me do the rest. There's still one puzzle left in my last book, but I'm not going to do it. This is what gratitude felt like.)

This is how Professor X must feel when everyone comes to him with their problems. Sometimes I notice he's got this little frown on his face when he thinks nobody's looking. Of course, the Professor always knows when we're looking, so I guess that really doesn't work.

(During my weekly therapy sessions that the Professor always insists on, I always start by telling him that I'm fine, really, and that he should be focusing on the others who have more important problems, like Rogue, or Gambit, or even Kurt. I always end up staying there for about an hour and confessing all of my deepest fears and insecurities. Once, I told him how I wished that my brother would at least send me a letter once in a while to tell me that he was okay. He got as close as he could in his wheelchair, put his hand on my shoulder, and told me that was precisely the reason why I was sitting on the couch in his office every week: so that his brother could tell him he was okay, in person. This is what belonging felt like.)

This is how Kitty must feel when she doesn't focus right on her phasing. One time, she got stuck halfway between one of the Sentinel machines in the Danger Room because she was too worried about the laser beam coming right for her head to use her power correctly. She said it was like when nurses dig around for a vein when they're taking blood samples.

(Last week, Kitty went to a club downtown and got drunk, something she felt the need to do every now and again. I was downstairs getting a midnight snack of some chocolate chip cookies when she stumbled past, giggling her head off. I set the cookies down and helped her up the stairs. She giggled the whole way until we got to her door. I opened it for her, but she didn't go in; instead, she looked up at me with this weird look. I thought she was going to puke, but instead she leaned over and planted a big one right on my lips. She tasted like vodka, vomit, and, oddly enough, peanut butter, which I hate. I broke away as fast as I could and ran back downstairs to wipe the taste away with the cookies. This is what disgust felt like.)

This is how Beast must feel when a culture does something weird. In his little lab downstairs, he does all this scientific work and stuff, and he gets that weird look on his face when something acts in a way he's not quite expecting. He usually makes some sorta wisecrack about it, although I never really get them half of the time.

(After a particularly ugly battle in which I managed to be dumb enough to get myself a concussion, he patched me up in the lab. Most of the details of those two days I spent down there are fuzzy, but I do have one clear memory. For some strange reason, I told him that I knew what it was like to be blue, and although it was kinda cool sometimes and really helped with a lot of things, it mostly just sucked. He stopped whatever he was doing on the clipboard and told me that I would never, ever understand how it was like for him. I don't think I could ever become or create the sheer iciness that was in his voice. I remember him apologizing later with a bunch of fancy words that tiptoed around 'sorry', and although it was weird, I know he meant it, because he's a nice guy. This is what regret felt like.)

This is how Scott must feel when he can't see. Although Professor X got those glasses for him so he could see without scorchin' us all to kingdom come and back again, he told me once he still has problems seeing the color red.

(For his birthday, I went to the hardware store and bought some spray paint in the perfect shade of red for his motorcycle. He always wanted to paint it, and said once that it would probably look awesome in red. I told him, when he unwrapped it, that I would be willing to help him with the paint job, but all he did was ruffle my hair in that annoying way he does every once in a while and told me I would probably screw it up. The can of spray paint still sits on the mantle of the fireplace in his room, right next to a picture of Jean. This is what pity felt like.)

This is how Jubilee must feel when she gets told she's not old enough to do something. A rebel to the end, that's Jubes, and we all love her for it, but sometimes the pouting's a bit over-the-top.

(One night, I took the last pint of Mint Chocolate Chip ice cream out of the freezer and was eating it in the kitchen when she waltzed in, checked the freezer, and shut it with a slam. Then she saw me, and for the next five minutes I was treated to tantrums, wheedling, and threats of varying intensity and seriousness. I finally told her to grab a spoon already and help me finish the dumb thing. This is what surrender felt like.)

This is how Storm must feel when her plants refuse to sprout. I have no idea why; she does everything exactly how she's supposed to, not over- or under-watering, not making them fight each other for sunlight, even using some fancy fertilizer. I figure that if someone who's as tight with Mother Earth as she is can't get them to grow, then nobody's gonna.

(Since our powers are so similar, she and I usually get paired together in Danger Room sessions. I always use my powers to try and protect her because she's so vulnerable up there in the air. I learned my lesson when Kitty and Kurt were teamed up to practice with us. Kurt teleported on top of me and knocked me to the ground; Kitty phased my hands into the floor and left me there, effectively nullifying my powers. I was worried for Storm when I heard the yelling and fracas of the battle behind me. I couldn't turn to see what was going on, but I heard the quiet footsteps approaching me once the noise abated at last. Storm looked down at me, smiling, and promptly informed me that she could take care of herself, although the concern was endearing. This is what teamwork felt like.)

This is how Wolverine must feel when his claws come out. He's the only one of us that never hestitates to use his mutation, or the threat of it, in public.

(Still, when he's pouring his coffee in the morning, I see him flinch a little---almost unnoticeably---as he cradles the cup in his monstrous hands. Sometimes, when nobody's there or when we're busy making our own eye-opening breakfasts in the kitchen, like my massive five cereal combo, he sets the cup down and runs his hands over his knuckles. It's the only gentle thing I've ever seen him do. This is what respect felt like.)

This is how I feel whenever I look at her. She smiles, and suddenly everything seems a little warmer, like when all the snow melts in the spring and you just wanna run outside and dance and scream and play in the mud. She laughs, and my heart starts to beat wicked fast in my chest, almost so fast and so loud that I think she's gotta hear it, but she's never told me she has. She moves, and it's like she's using her powers to make my own Magma spurt all over the place, but I know it's all in my head. I can't look away from her sometimes. I dunno, I might even love her. If only she'd give me a shot.

(Through some miracle it's just the two of us in the Mansion today, me laid up with a cold, of all things, and everybody else ice skating. I can't believe that the first and probably last time I get to spend the day with Amara is one where my nose is redder than her fire-form. She walks right into my room this morning, saying that she didn't want to go because ice wasn't really her thing, which stung more than I thought it would; then she tells me, as she sets the chicken soup on my bedside table, that she wanted to stay and make sure somebody looks after me. It's almost as if she's giving me mixed signals, but I know that's ridiculous, because why would she be giving me signals? She's not interested. Still, she spends the whole day with me, playing video games and cards, watching television, and even just talking in the kitchen over bowls of ice cream.)

"Bobby?" she asks, stirring her spoon around in the empty bowl.

"Yeah?" I croak, then reach for a tissue to blow my nose. It sounds like a thousand flat bagpipes at a Scottish funeral.

"D'you ever wish you could just, like...let loose?" she says awkwardly, not meeting my eyes. "Y'know, with your powers," she adds, a little too late for it to be a proper addition, but I file that away for later.

"Sometimes," I agree, my nasal voice making me sound worse than I really feel. "But that's what the Danger Room sessions are for, isn't it? To get rid of all of that...extra energy," I argue, then tiredly reach for yet another tissue, sounding off while Amara replies.

"Yeah, but still...I'd feel bad wrecking all that stuff if I, y'know, went all out," she admits, shrugging.

"Pfft!" I half-laugh, stopping to hack and cough a few times. She looks up, concerned, but I wave it away before regaining my breath to finish my thought.

"That's what it's for, Amara! We're supposed to blow it up and stuff. Why d'you think Wolverine loves it so much?" I joke, grinning.

"But doesn't it cost a lot to repair all that stuff?" she counters.

"Dude, Professor X is loaded! I don't think it's much of a problem. Besides, there's probably some super-smart metal-moving inventor-dude out there that helps him out with the stuff," I reassure her, then break into a fit of sneezes. In between each of the six mini-hurricanes, I see Amara's thought process change: amusement, disbelief, hope, contentment, determination; or, at least, I like to think I see that. Sometimes I see things that aren't really there.

"You wanna be my partner for our next team session, Bobby?" she asks suddenly after the sixth sneeze, catching me unawares, and I have to keep repeating to myself that it's not a date, it's never going to be a date, that she just wants to work off some steam and wants me there to...well...

"Yeah! Sure! Sounds cool," I agree enthusiastically. We break into grins and sit there, empty bowls of ice cream still on the counter, almost taunting us with the need to get up and put them away.

I hear the front doors close and suddenly the room is filled with frozen X-Men demanding hot chocolate. Amara laughs and starts to make the life-giving liquid while Jamie and Kurt regale me with shivery tales of just how bad of a skater Roberto is. I'm listening, but my eyes keep flicking to Amara, clearly in over her head in the kitchen.

"Keep talking, guys," I say as I get off of the kitchen stool and walk into the kitchen. The cold has left me feeling so very tired, so drained, but I shrug it off to help Amara with the hot chocolate. I take the pan of water she was hastily boiling off of the stove a good two seconds before she thinks to do it. When she catches my eye, I see that she's surprised, but she only has time for a quick, grateful smile before hurrying to grab more packets of hot chocolate and marshmallows from the cupboard.

That smile makes me want to ask her right then and there if she'll be my girlfriend, but as soon as I open my mouth, I have to turn away because the sneezes are back.

I'll ask her once my nose returns to its normal color, I tell myself.

(This is what love feels like.)

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**Author's Note: Well, that certainly turned out far differently than I expected it to! What did you think of it? Click the button and let me know.**


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